Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  “Madame,” said Winter, “Your Majesty will be served with true devotion. I go now to put in a safe place these objects that I wouldn’t have accepted in the days of our good fortune; but our property has been confiscated, our income is dried up, and we must succeed by making use of whatever we have. After that I’ll go visit the Comte de La Fère, and tomorrow Your Majesty will know where we stand.”

  The queen extended her hand to Lord Winter, who kissed it respectfully, and then indicating her daughter, said, “Milord, you were charged with delivering to this child something from her father.”

  Winter looked astonished; he wasn’t sure what the queen was talking about.

  But young Henrietta stepped forward, smiling and blushing, and said “Tell my father that, king or fugitive, victor or vanquished, powerful or poor, he has in me the most loyal and affectionate of daughters.” And she presented her forehead to the gentleman.

  “I know that, Mademoiselle,” replied Winter, brushing Henrietta’s brow with his lips.

  Then he departed, going unescorted through those grand echoing chambers, now deserted and gloomy, wiping away those tears that, jaded though he was by fifty years of court life, he couldn’t help shedding when faced with the sight of such deep and profound royal misery.

  XLII

  The Uncle and the Nephew

  Lord Winter’s horse and lackey were waiting for him at the gate. Pensive, he rode toward his lodgings, looking back from time to time toward the dark and silent façade of the Louvre. It was then that he saw a cavalier detach himself, so to speak, from the wall and follow him at a distance. He remembered having seen a similar shadow behind him on the way from the Palais Royal.

  Lord Winter’s lackey, who followed him a few paces behind, had also been watching this cavalier anxiously.

  “Tony,” said the gentleman, beckoning his valet to approach.

  “I’m here, Milord.” The valet rode up beside his master.

  “Have you noticed that man who’s following us?”

  “Yes, Milord.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. I only know he followed Milord from the Palais Royal, waited at the Louvre for you to come out, and then left when we left.”

  “Some spy of the cardinal’s,” said Winter. “Pretend not to notice his surveillance.”

  And, spurring on, he plunged into the maze of streets that led to his hôtel in the Marais quarter. Long ago he’d lodged in the Place Royale, and now Lord Winter had returned to his former neighborhood.

  The unknown follower put his horse into a gallop.

  Winter reached his inn and went up to his rooms, where he hoped to see the spy from his windows, but as he put his hat and gloves on a table he glanced in a mirror and saw a figure appear in the doorway behind him.

  He turned, and Mordaunt stood before him.

  Winter turned pale and froze. As for Mordaunt, he stood in the doorway, cold, threatening, like the statue of Don Juan’s Commander.109

  There was a moment of icy silence between the two men. Then Winter said, “Monsieur, I thought I’d already made it clear that your harassment is tiresome. Withdraw, or I’ll have you driven off as I did in London. I’m not your uncle, and I do not know you.”

  “Dear Uncle,” replied Mordaunt in his hoarse, mocking voice, “you’re quite mistaken—you won’t drive me away as you did in London. You don’t dare. As for denying that I’m your nephew, think again, as I’ve learned many things I didn’t know a year ago.”

  “What does it matter to me what you’ve learned?” said Winter.

  “Oh, I’m quite sure it will matter a great deal, Uncle, as I believe you’ll agree,” Mordaunt added, with a smile that sent a shiver down Winter’s spine. “When I first presented myself at your house in London, it was to ask what had befallen me. The second time I introduced myself, it was to ask what had tainted my name. This time I stand before you to ask a question far more terrible than those before, to ask you, as God said to the first murderer, ‘Cain, where is thy brother Abel?’ Milord, where is your sister, that sister who was my mother?”

  Winter recoiled from the fire in those ardent eyes. “Your mother?” he said.

  “Yes, Milord—my mother,” replied the young man, nodding savagely.

  Though battered by the memories such fierce hatred stirred up, Winter made an effort to get hold of himself, and snapped, “What’s become of her? Ask for her in Hell, wretch, and maybe Hell will answer you.”

  Mordaunt advanced into the room until he was face-to-face with Lord Winter and crossed his arms. “I already asked the executioner of Béthune,” the young man said in a hollow voice, his face livid with grief and anger, “and the executioner of Béthune told me.”

  Winter fell back on a chair as if struck by a thunderbolt and tried in vain to reply.

  “Oh, yes,” continued the young man. “At his words all was explained, for they were the key that unlocked the abyss. My mother inherited from her husband, and then you assassinated my mother! My name would have given me my paternity, so you denied my name—and when you denied my name, you robbed me of my fortune. I no longer wonder why you refused to acknowledge me. When one is a thief, it’s unseemly to call the one you robbed ‘nephew’—when one is a murderer, it’s inconvenient to recognize the one you’ve orphaned!”

  These words produced an effect contrary to what Mordaunt had expected, as they only served to remind Winter what a monster Milady had been. He rose, calm and grave, and his severe look disconcerted the furious young man. “Do you want to know the whole truth of this horrible secret, Monsieur?” Winter said. “Well, then, let me tell you about the woman of whom you come today to call me to account. This woman had in all likelihood poisoned my brother, and in order to inherit from me, planned to assassinate me in my turn; of that I have proof. Now what do you have to say?”

  “I say she was my mother!”

  “She took a man formerly just, good, and pure and seduced him into stabbing the Duke of Buckingham to death. Of that crime I have proof. Now what do you say?”

  “She was my mother!”

  “Returned to France, at the Augustine convent in Béthune, she poisoned a young woman just because she loved one of her enemies. Will that crime persuade you of the justice of her punishment? For of that crime, I have proof!”

  “She was my mother!” the young man cried, even louder than before.

  “At last, filthy with murder and debauchery, abhorrent to all, still as menacing as a bloodthirsty panther, she was captured by five men she’d driven to despair, though they’d never caused her the slightest harm. She was found and judged for her appalling crimes. This executioner with whom you spoke, whom you said told you all—if he’d really told you everything, he must have told you that he trembled with joy when he avenged the shame and suicide of his debauched brother. Perverted daughter, adulterous wife, unnatural sister, poisoner, assassin, an abomination to all who knew her, to every nation that received her—that’s what that woman was.”

  An involuntary sob tore from Mordaunt’s throat and brought the blood mounting back to his pallid face. He clenched his fists, his face streamed with sweat, his hair bristling on his head like Hamlet’s, and trembling with fury, he cried, “Silence! Silence! She was my mother! These quarrels, these vices, these crimes—I don’t know them! What I do know is that I had a mother, and that five men, conspiring against one woman, killed her secretly, silently, vindictively, like cowards! What I know is that you were one of them, Monsieur, and that it was you, Uncle, who said, loudest and most fervently, that she must die! So now I warn you: listen to these words and engrave them on your memory so you’ll never forget them—this murder that drives me mad, this murder that has taken my name, this murder that has impoverished me, this murder is what’s made me corrupt, wicked, and implacable! I demand an accounting for it, first of all from you, and then, when I find them, from your accomplices.”

  Hatred in his eyes, froth rimming his mouth, his fist ou
tstretched, Mordaunt took a terrible and menacing step toward Winter.

  But the latter put his hand on his sword, and said, with the smile of a man who has gamed with death for thirty years, “Would you try to assassinate me, Monsieur? Then I’d have to acknowledge you as my nephew, for you’d reveal yourself as your mother’s son.”

  “No,” replied Mordaunt, exerting an iron will and forcing all the muscles of his face and body back into their usual slackened state. “No, I won’t kill you—at least not now. For I need you to lead me to the others. But when I find them, Monsieur, you may then tremble . . . for I’ll treat you as I did the executioner of Béthune. Him I stabbed to the heart without pity or mercy, and he was the least guilty of all of you.”

  At these words, the young man departed, descending the stairs so quietly he was unnoticed, even by Tony, waiting on the landing for a call from his master. But Winter didn’t call; shaken, near fainting, he stood frozen, listening hard until he heard hoofbeats as a horse rode away. Then he collapsed in a chair, whispering, “I’m thankful, dear God, that he knows only my name.”

  XLIV

  Paternity

  While this terrible scene was playing out at Lord Winter’s, Athos, seated by the window of his chamber, his elbow resting on a table and his head resting on his hand, listened rapt as Raoul recounted the events of his journey and the details of the battle. The gentleman’s handsome and noble figure almost glowed with joy at the recital of the youth’s first adventures; he drank in the sound of that youthful voice, so fresh and pure, as if listening to harmonious music. He forgot everything dark in the past, and everything cloudy in the future, as if the return of the beloved child had turned even fears into hopes. Athos was happy, as happy as he’d ever been.

  “And you saw and took part in this great battle, Bragelonne?” said the former musketeer.

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “And it was fierce, you say?”

  “Monsieur le Prince personally led the charge eleven times.”

  “He is a great man of war, Bragelonne.”

  “He’s a hero, Monsieur—I didn’t lose sight of him for a second. Oh, it’s a grand thing, Monsieur, to bear such a name as Condé!”

  “Brilliant, and yet calm, is he not?”

  “Brilliant as if at a party and calm as if on parade. When we approached the enemy, it was on the double; we were forbidden to fire first, and marched at the Spaniards, who awaited us on a crest, musketoons at the ready. At a range of thirty paces, the prince turned to our soldiers. ‘Enfants,’ he said, ‘you’re about to withstand a furious volley; but afterward, believe me, they’ll pay the price for it.’ There was such a hush that the soldiers on both sides heard every word. Then raising his sword, he cried, ‘Sound the trumpets.’”

  “Well, well! . . . When the time comes, you’ll do the same thing, won’t you, Raoul?”

  “Absolutely, Monsieur, for I found it both grand and moving. At a range of twenty paces we saw their muskets glint as they lowered them on us, for the sun gleamed on the barrels. ‘At a walk, mes enfants, at a walk,’ said the prince, ‘now’s the time.’”

  “Were you scared, Raoul?” asked the count.

  “Yes, Monsieur,” the young man said naïvely, “I felt a chill grasp my heart, and as the word ‘Fire!’ echoed down the enemy ranks, I closed my eyes and thought of you.”

  “Did you indeed, Raoul?” said Athos, taking his hand.

  “Yes, Monsieur. At that moment there was such an explosion you would have said that Hell had opened its gates, and those who weren’t killed felt the heat of the flames. I opened my eyes, astounded at not being dead, or at least wounded; a third of the squadron was lying on the ground, bloody and mutilated. At that moment I met the prince’s eye and thought of nothing except that he was looking at me. I drove in both spurs and found myself amidst the ranks of our enemies.”

  “And the prince was pleased with you?”

  “He told me so at least, Monsieur, when he asked me to ride to Paris with Monsieur de Châtillon, sent to bring the queen the news along with our captured banners. ‘Go,’ said the prince. ‘The enemy won’t regroup for a fortnight. Until then I don’t need you. Go and embrace those you love and who love you, and tell my sister de Longueville that I thank her for the gift she gave me in sending you.’ And so, I came, Monsieur,” added Raoul, looking at the count with a loving smile, “for I thought you’d be glad to see me again.”

  Athos drew the young man to him and kissed him on the forehead as he would a young girl. “And so,” he said, “you are launched, Raoul. You have dukes as friends, a Marshal of France for a godfather, a Prince of the Blood as your captain, and in one day you’ve been received by two queens. Not bad for a novice.”

  “Oh, Monsieur!” said Raoul suddenly. “You’ve reminded me of something I forgot to say, I was so eager to recount my adventures: in the Queen of England’s chamber was a gentleman who, when I mentioned your name, gave a cry of surprise and joy. He said he was a friend of yours, asked me your address, and said he’s coming to see you.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I didn’t dare to ask him, Monsieur; but, though he spoke quite well, based on his accent I think he’s English.”

  “Ah!” said Athos. He bent his head as if searching his memory, but when he looked up, the memory was before him, as a man was standing in the half-open doorway and looking at him fondly.

  “Lord de Winter!” cried the count.

  “Athos, my friend!”

  The two gentlemen embraced for a long moment. Then Athos, taking him by the hands, looked at him and said, “What’s the matter, Milord? You seem as sad as I am happy.”

  “Yes, dear friend, it’s true—and moreover, the sight of you redoubles my fears.” And Winter looked around as if seeking something. Raoul understood that what he wanted was privacy and left the two old friends without hesitation.

  “Now that we’re alone,” said Athos, “let’s speak of you.”

  “While we’re alone, we must speak of both of us,” replied Lord Winter. “He is here.”

  “Who?”

  “The son of Milady.”

  Athos, struck again by this name that seemed to pursue him like a fatal echo, hesitated a moment, frowned slightly, and then calmly said, “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes. Grimaud ran into him between Béthune and Arras, and returned at the gallop to warn me of his coming.”

  “Grimaud recognized him, then?”

  “No, but he stood at the deathbed of a man who did.”

  “The executioner of Béthune!” cried Winter.

  “How do you know that?” said Athos, astonished.

  “From the son—I just saw him,” Winter replied, “and he told me everything. Ah, my friend, what a terrible plight! We should have buried the child with the mother!”

  Athos, like all noble natures, didn’t inflict his painful feelings on others; instead he swallowed them, and tried to replace them by emanating hope and encouragement. It was as if he transformed his personal griefs into shared consolation. “What are you afraid of?” he said, understanding the need to address that instinctive terror he had also felt at first. “Is this young man a trained assassin who murders in cold blood? He slew the executioner of Béthune in a mad rage, but now his fury is sated.”

  Winter smiled sadly, shook his head, and said, “Don’t you know whose blood he shares?”

  “Bah!” said Athos, trying to smile. “Such ferocity would be diluted in younger generations. Besides, friend, Providence has warned us, so we’re on our guard. All we can do is wait, so let’s wait. But as I said before, let’s talk about you. What brings you to Paris?”

  “Some important matters I’ll get to eventually. First, what’s this I hear from Her Majesty the Queen of England that d’Artagnan is one of Mazarin’s men? Pardon my bluntness, my friend—I have nothing against the cardinal, and I trust your judgment completely, but are you by any chance also with his party?�
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  “Monsieur d’Artagnan is in the service,” said Athos, “and as a soldier, he obeys the constituted authority. D’Artagnan isn’t wealthy and needs his lieutenant’s salary. Millionaires like you, Milord, are rare in France.”

  “Alas!” said Winter. “I’m now as poor or even poorer than he is. But let’s return to you.”

  “So, you want to know if I’m with Mazarin? Well, pardon my bluntness, Milord, but no—a thousand times no.”

  Winter rose and pressed Athos in his arms. “Thank you, Count,” he said, “thanks for this wonderful news. I rejoice and am rejuvenated! You’re not with Mazarin—what great good luck! Of course, you couldn’t possibly be one of his minions. But, pardon my asking, are you at liberty?”

  “What do you mean, at liberty?”

  “I’m asking if you’re married.”

  “Oh, as to that—no,” said Athos, smiling.

  “I wondered: that young man, so handsome, so elegant, so gracious . . .”

  “He’s a child whom I raised, and who doesn’t know his father.”

  “Ah, very good. You’re still the same, Athos, grand and generous.”

  “Come, Milord, why do you ask?”

  “You’re still in touch with your friends Messieurs Porthos and Aramis?”

  “And d’Artagnan as well, Milord. We are four friends who are as devoted to each other as always—but when it comes to serving the cardinal or opposing him, as Mazarin’s men or Frondeurs, we are in two camps.”

  “Monsieur Aramis sides with d’Artagnan?” asked Lord Winter.

  “No,” said Athos, “Monsieur Aramis does me the honor to share my convictions.”

  “Can you put me in touch with your charming and witty friend?”